


Sing of the unsung

by AncientLitFanficCollective



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AncientLitFanficCollective/pseuds/AncientLitFanficCollective
Summary: The Iliad, under the pov of the women who saw it through.





	1. Chapter 1

Muses! Sing the misfortune of Helen of Sparta, Helen of Troy, born of a god and yet pawn to another in a game of ego that would bring the downfall of so many heroes. Sing of the despair of Andromache, married to the best of the Trojans and mother to his son, yet powerless to stop his rushing towards his fatal destiny. Sing of the exhaustion of Hecuba, mother of many a Trojan prince who went and fought and died as heroes, condemned to bury her children and weep and pray, powerless to stop their gruesome fate. Sing of the frustration of Cassandra, who refused herself to a god and was condemned to announce the future but never be believed, yet another harbinger of the doom looming on the Trojans. Sing of the resignation of Briseis, valued prize received by Achilles for his deeds, used by Agamemnon to punish him yet whose rapt would be the inception of the story that would bring about Achilles’ immortal fame, the story the Muses sang so long ago, the story of swift-footed Achilles’s rage.


	2. Briseis

She had known to expect them. Not that Achilles himself would have told her, no, but the whispers had spread within the Greek camp and reached her ears. As soon as her master had returned from his trip to return to her father Chriseis, beautiful Chriseis, lucky Chriseis, she had been expecting the heralds. She could hear them now, in front of the tent, asking for her. She was to be taken to Agamemnon, the King of Kings, to be his slave in Chriseis’ place.

Briseis knew that she was but a prize to the Myrmidon prince who had killed her husband and destroyed her home of Lyrnessos on his way to Troy, just another symbol of his grandeur, and yet, she couldn’t help but dread leaving his ownership for that of Agamemnon. She had heard stories, shared in low voices and dark corners of tall tents; the man, true to the image of power he had of himself, was not a gentle lover. 

Briseis’ musings were interrupted by a rustling behind her, at the entrance of the tent, its opening allowing some external light inside the dwelling that had been meant for the past ten years to be but a temporary one. She sighed, and put her needle works on the nearby table. There would be no need to say the hurtful words, to acknowledge once more that she was a possession to change owner at the whims of men. Patroclus, the ever-sweet Patroclus, leaned inside, his steps light and somewhat hesitant. She grabbed a bundle that she had put together earlier on: some clothes that she had been allowed to keep as a symbol not of her previous status but as one of that of her new master. He reached for her arms, gently leading her towards the tent’s exit. Even now, at this time, she could see the beauty of both his body and his heart that Achilles so beloved. Patroclus had always been good to her, for the past nine years of war and blood and death. His unwavering love and support had also carried Achilles through those years, Briseis knew. 

Resigned, she followed him under the flickering light of the torches, to the awaiting heralds. Achilles was still there, sitting in front of the tent. While he could not, would not cause a scene, she could see the emotion shining in his eyes avoiding hers all the while he bore an indifferent face. Like the queen she had once been, she held her head high as she let the heralds lead her away from this relative safety, along the path to the King’s tent.


End file.
